


Blessed are Those Who Mourn

by ladyambir



Series: Beatitudes [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Dubcon Kissing, F/M, M/M, Multi, Sad, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, self destructive behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23257834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyambir/pseuds/ladyambir
Summary: Sam is struggling with Ellen and Jo's deaths.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Gabriel/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/Other(s)
Series: Beatitudes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672189
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't gotten to Season 5 Episode 10, don't read this. Seriously, I'm warning you now that the spoilers are massive! Set (roughly) between S5 E10 and S5 E11.

After the pyre was burnt out, after the wounds were all bandaged, after every drop of booze in Bobby's house had found it's way inside of a surviving hunter, Sam was still aching. Ellen and Jo were dead, and it was all his fault. He was the psychic freak, the 'chosen one' for Hell's army, the one to break the last seal and free the devil himself, _Lucifer's freaking vessel _for gods' sake! There were so many times he should have died, and if he _hadn't _lived...Ellen and Jo would still be serving bad beer and good whiskey at the Roadhouse, fighting over whether Jo had any business hunting, and teaming up to make him and Dean feel like naughty twelve-year olds. As he crept out of Bobby's house he just couldn't stop thinking that they were dead, he was alive, and it was all _wrong _.__  
Once he was safely hidden from the house by the piles of old cars in the salvage yard, Sam walked a little easier. Sneaking away from Dean - even when Dean was dead drunk, snoring fit to rattle the shingles, and half buried under his angel - was never an easy task, but Sam had been doing it for years. As he meanders through the yard, Sam's mind flitted through memories of all the people he'd lost - Mom, Dad, Jess, Ellen and Jo being the sharpest stings, but even the deaths of Meg and Casey haunt him. Then his mind turns to the living, the people who've been hurt because of who and what he is. That list is even longer, but it's Dean (it's always Dean, a small voice in his heart whispers) who has suffered the most, forgiven the most, and absolutely refuses to accept any kind of apology. His thoughts spiraling now, Sam realizes that he has reached the far edge of the salvage yard. He pauses for a moment, deciding whether to keep walking (and never come back, that damned voice whispers again) or turn back to the house. Unable to commit to either course of action, he sits, propping his back up against one of the wrecks. His face itches, and he swipes at it impatiently with his hands, only then realizing that he's been crying for some time now. He drops his hands, exasperated with his own weakness, and his right hand lands on something sharp.  
"Ow! Dammit", he mutters into the still night air as he picks up the offending object. It's a piece of broken mirror. He's not surprised, the yard is littered with years worth of such debris, but he does think that maybe being out here drunk as hell is, perhaps, not very smart. But he's comfortable now, except for the cut on the meaty part of his thumb, which looks like it is bleeding black in the moonlight. He gets out his phone; he can use it for extra light and see how bad it really is. In the better light, he can see that the cut isn't terribly deep, and the (red, red...whispers the voice in his head) blood flow is already slowing. Too bad really...it felt almost good, like the pain, the bleeding was freeing him from thinking about...everything. Without a second thought, he brings the glass down across his palm. The pain is sharp and immediate, the alcohol in his system suddenly not taking the edge off _at all _. He swears, dropping the mirror piece like it burned him and taking off his outer shirt to wrap the wound. He's got to get back to the house and clean it; hopefully he can manage without waking anyone, he needs time to figure out how he's going to explain the cut.  
As Sam gets up and head back to the house, he feels a bit dizzy. Suddenly he finds himself _elsewhere _. "Hey Sam" a familiar voice says. " _ **Gabriel?!? __** _" Sam exclaims, completely shocked. He thought they'd seen the last of the archangel. "The one and only," Gabriel replies, and Sam gets the distinct feeling that something is wrong. Gabriel is usually cheerful to the point of being annoying, and right now he sounds sort of down. "Where am I?" Sam asks, even though he knows he's unlikely to get a straight answer. Gabriel doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he walks up and grabs Sam's injured hand, healing it with his grace. "You should be more careful Sam," he says, tipping his head back to look the much taller hunter in the eye, "there may not always be an angel around to make sure you heal right."  
For just a moment, Sam feels like Gabriel did more than just heal his hand. He feels light, good, like he's had a really good nights sleep, or spent some relaxing time off with good friends. It fades quickly, but it leaves Sam trying to remember if being healed by Cas ever made him feel that way. He doesn't think so, wonders if it's because Gabriel is so much stronger than Cas, and then forgets the whole train of thought as the feeling fades. So he just says, "Thanks man, but you didn't need to do that, it would have healed." He almost misses Gabriel's flinch, almost, but he didn't, and now he has to know, "Is something wrong?"  
Sam's seen Gabriel angry before, once. It shouldn't be terrifying that a guy almost a foot shorter than him is mad at him, but it really, really is! Before he even has a chance to think of apologizing, he's slammed against a wall. He gasps from the impact, and then he's being kissed within an inch of his life. He goes rigid with shock - _Gabriel _is kissing him! - then tries to struggle against the power holding him in place. His efforts will mean nothing if the archangel chooses to ignore them, so Sam is relieved when Gabriel backs off and lets him go. "You idiot." Gabriel growls, pacing angrily in front of him. "I saw you, you know. I know that was no accident. I could hear you. I know why...but Sam, don't you understand how much good you've done in this world? Don't you know how many people's lives would be worse without you in them?" Gabriel stops pacing and looks him dead in the face, "Or do you just not care?"_  
"When did Gabriel get taller?" his mind wonders irrelevantly, as it spins, looking for an answer to any of what was just said, or what just happened. "I...uh...you...", he mutters, gesturing vaguely towards his still stinging mouth. Gabriel looks sad again, but touches a finger to his lips. "I'm sorry Sam. I never meant..." the angel half-whispers as his grace takes away the pain. "This was all a bad dream."___________


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're _dead_ Dean, how is that ever going to get better?

Sam woke up sore from sleeping sitting up, on the ground, against a...what even was that car? Half asleep, curiosity has him circling the back of the wreck, looking for a name. He's surprised when he sees it - what's a Rolls Royce doing in Bobby's scrap yard? Then it dawns on him that Dean is either up or will be soon...his heads back to the house at a brisk walk despite his aches, he had better get back before they start sending out search parties!  
As he hits the first step, Sam knows that he's already in trouble, he can hear Dean shouting, "Dammit Cas, where the hell could he have gone, it's not like he didn't drink just as much as I did!" He pauses to catch his breathe, and hears Cas calmly reply, "He's not in trouble Dean, I'd have felt that. Maybe he woke early and went for a walk." As he pushes open the door, he finds himself the focus of all three men. Dean looks angry, Cas is (as usual) calm, and Bobby looks like he doesn't care about anything but a hangover cure and more sleep. "Hey guys," he says, trying to keep his tone even, as though nothing is wrong, "sorry if you were worried Dean, my drunk self went for a walk and fell asleep out in the yard." He puts his best sheepish grin on, hoping that Dean isn't in one of his more spectacularly foul moods and is willing to let it go.  
"Idjit" Bobby mutters, and heads into the kitchen. Dean looks skeptical, but when Cas takes his hand and gently tugs him toward the kitchen also, he doesn't put up a fight. Sam grins a little and shakes his head; his brother has been a _lot _easier to live with since him and Cas got together. He follows them. Bobby is making coffee, Dean starts getting out eggs, and Cas is setting the table. It feels so...normal, and suddenly he can't breathe, his chest hurts like someone has punched him, his throat is closing, and he's leaning against the wall, trying desperately to stay on his feet. Cas looks up at him sharply, then is at his side, hooking a chair and pulling it over. "Sit Sam", the angel rasps, making Dean turn around from his cooking. "Sam?!" his brother asks, alarmed. "Cas, what's wrong with him?" "I'm not certain Dean, there's nothing physically wrong, my grace could find nothing to heal." Cas sounds distressed, and Sam wishes that he wasn't the cause of it, but he still can't breathe, and the room is going fuzzy....  
"Son, put your head down, between your knees or as close to it as you can, then concentrate on breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth. I know it feels like you can't, but you _can_ breathe. Close your eyes and just breathe." Bobby sounds like he knows what he's talking about, so Sam does as he's told. He relearns how to breathe, then starts to cry in great helpless sobs. A few minutes later, he's back to normal-ish. He still feels like his skin is too small, and his eyes are probably insanely puffy, but he's stopped crying and is still breathing, so it's a win. As soon as he lifts his head, Dean is in his face. "What the hell was that Sammy?!? Whatever it was, don't do it again, you scared the life out of me!" Dean's rough hug tells him as much as Dean's words - Dean is still very worried and would like some answers but is not going to push his baby brother right this instant. Cas lays two fingers on his forehead and he feels all the physical traces of his crying go away. "Thanks man," he says, "you didn't have to do that." He's truly grateful but also has an odd sense of déjà vu suddenly. Bobby hands him a cup of coffee, and clears his throat, "You wanna tell us why you just had a panic attack in my kitchen?"  
"That was a panic attack?" Dean asks, whipping around to look at Bobby and Sam. Sam looks at the coffee in his cup for a minute, trying to get his thoughts in order. The kitchen is quiet. The pan Dean's making eggs in sizzles, the coffee pot gurgles, and no one speaks. They will wait for him to answer, because that is what they do. If he chooses to pretend nothing happened, they will most likely let it go until it happens again. But Sam can't do that to them. Dean and Bobby will worry and Cas will watch him more closely, and he doesn't want that. So he takes a drink and starts, "It was just so _normal_." It comes out a little whiny, so he clears his throat and tries again, trying to pretend he doesn't see Cas nodding like he completely understands now, or Bobby looking sad, or Dean, gaping at him like he just announced that he was dating an alien. "Ellen and Jo...they're dead. And you guys were just doing all the things we'd be doing any other morning and it was just so _normal_ and it was all wrong..." He could feel the pain in his chest starting again, so he sat his coffee down and put his head down again. He heard the pan dumped into the sink, and then Dean was in front of him, squatting down to try to catch his eye. "Sam.." his brother started, then stopped uncomfortably. "Sammy, I know it's hard, but life _has_ to go on. If we just stop, lay down and let Lucifer win, how is that honoring Ellen and Jo? It's a lot right now, but it will get better eventually, if you let it."  
"They're _dead_ Dean, how is that ever going to get better?!?" he shouts, even though he knows Dean's just trying to help. He surges to his feet, angry now. "I'm going to town, there's no booze left and I need a drink." He heads for the door but stops, remembering something. "Hey Bobby, how on earth did you end up with a Rolls in the salvage yard?" he asks. Bobby takes his ball cap off and scratches his head. "I'd damn near forgotten that was out there. It's a Rolls Royce Silver Seraph, and I bought it off an estate sale. I though I could maybe restore it, but I haven't gotten to it yet. Why?" "I fell asleep on it apparently, just wondered this morning how it ended up here, looks like it was a beauty once, just seems a shame." He continued out of the house with a strange feeling, like he was forgetting something important.  
Halfway to the nearest gas station, Sam was heartily wishing that he'd thought to take one of the cars; Bobby's house was a ways outside of town. Still, he felt calmer, and that was good. Half-assed moves ("like walking 4 miles to get booze" the insidious voice in his head supplied) made when his emotions were running too high were what got him into most of the trouble in his life. He thought about leaving for Stanford; it had felt right at the time, but ultimately, it cost Jess her life. He remembered walking away from Dean on their way to Burkitsville. Again, it had felt like the right thing, but he'd met Meg because of it, and _nothing_ good had come of that. As he walked, he dredged up every perceived failure to _just think things through_ , and by the time he reached the edge of town, he was hot, tired and sure that he was the world's foremost expert in screwing the pooch. He decided to bypass the gas station and keep walking until he found an open bar; if Dean wanted booze, he could drag his ass to town and get his own.__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only get italics to work sporadically, I'm not sure what it is I'm doing wrong. So if the emphasis is lost in places, know that I am sorry, and I will try to fix it when I can.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Sam gets drunk and makes an ass of himself.

The first bar Sam finds is closed, and he almost gives up, but the voice in his head won't _shut the fuck up_ about all his failures, and he needs to drown it out. So he keeps walking, and finds another bar a few blocks away, that is open. It looks like a sad little dive from the outside, but Sam's gotten drunk in worse, so he opens the heavy metal door and steps into the dim lighting on the other side. When his eyes finally adjust, he rubs them to make sure they're working right - the inside of the bar is bigger than he expected, and much nicer than the outside would have led him to believe. There's also an unusual variety of seating; booths with plush padding and red velvet seats, booths of smooth wood and minimal padding covered in what looks like real leather, booths with bare metal seats, tables with an even more bewildering variety of chairs, and at the bar - bar stools topped with saddles, stools with nice cushions, stools with almost no seat (that look _really_ uncomfortable!), stools that spin, stools with and without backs. It's like every kind of bar furniture ever made has been packed into one place, and the effect is oddly charming. It takes a minute before he realizes that he's being watched; some of the booths, tables, and bar stools are actually occupied, even though it well before noon on a weekday. He takes his jacket off and walks to the bar, slinging it over the back of a (nicely padded) bar stool before sitting down. The bartender comes over with a friendly smile, "Hey there, I'm Tom. What can I get you?" "Bud, bottle is fine," he replies, not wanting to announce his intention to get blind drunk before supper time just yet. Tom grabs a bottle, pops the top, and sets it on a napkin in front of him. "That'll be $2.50," he says, with another smile, this one a little more knowing, as if he's seen this tactic before and already knows what Sam's going to say next. So Sam _doesn't_ ask if he can just run a tab, there's always time for that later, and he doesn't like feeling like he's that predictable, or that his pain is that obvious. He digs three ones out of his pocket and mutters "Keep the change" as he hands them over. 

Sam grabs the bottle and half turns away from the bar, universal signal to bartenders that he doesn't want to chat. Tom takes the hint, and goes back to whatever he was doing before Sam sat down. Unfortunately, his turn brings him to the attention of a couple of women sitting in a booth drinking what he guesses are appletinis or something of that nature. The one who has to turn around in her seat to look at him when her friend giggles is a bottled red-head, the giggly one trying to catch his eye by flipping her hair is blond. He half smiles and turns back to the bar...even conversation with Tom is better than being hit on right now; he's not Dean, drowning himself in sex has never been how he copes. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he wants to hit himself for being unfair to Dean. That may have been how his brother was, but since he and Cas got together, Dean's been...happy...he thinks is the word. Even when things are going to Hell, literally, Dean's been stable and focused. Sam only wishes he could say the same for himself. He's been in a flatspin, never ahead of the curve, always playing catch up. Azazel, Ruby, Lucifer, the seals, Lilith...he didn't see any of it coming, couldn't prepare, had to just react, and no big surprise to anyone, least of all himself, he reacted all wrong and made things worse. And now Ellen and Jo are dead, and there's no fixing that and **damn** he needs something stronger than beer!

He holds the now empty bottle up when Tom glances over. That gets his attention, but he doesn't assume Sam means that he wants another, instead he comes over and asks "Ready for another?" Sam can see the subtle smile around the bartenders eyes, but he can't bring himself to care; his thoughts are far too dark to face sober. "Can you run me a tab?" he asks, fishing 'his' Visa card out of his wallet. Tom takes the card and lays it near the register, saying "Sure thing, but...you driving?" Sam indicates the negative, and Tom seems relieved. "Alright...Sam", he says, reading his name off the credit card, "What's your poison?" He turns away from the register, smiling openly, waiting for Sam's response. "Whiskey, whatever's cheap, neat - and keep it coming." Tom nods, as if this was precisely what he expected, and reaches for a bottle on the bottom shelf of the bar. Sam barks out a laugh - with very little amusement or happiness in the sound - when he sees the label of the same whiskey his dad used to get blind drunk on every now and again. ( _Every goddamned time he didn't have a hunt_ , his so-helpful inner voice supplies.) Tom quirks an eyebrow as he grabs a glass, "You did say you wanted the cheap stuff, right?" "Yeah man, sorry, it's just...nevermind, it's fine," Sam caught himself before he started down the dangerous road of confiding to the bartender. It wouldn't end well, so best not to start. Tom set the glass in front of him, and he knocked it back without hesitation. Tom's eyebrows are quite expressive, they hit his hairline as he refills the glass. "Might want to slow down a little champ, or I'll be pouring you into a taxi by lunch." Sam looks at him, a little taken aback. "I mean, it's your business" the bartender continued, "but you seem like a man avoiding something, and I doubt heading back to where you ought to be in less than an hour is going to fit with that plan." Damn, but this guy was perceptive. Sam smiled sheepishly, "That obvious huh?" Tom locked eyes with him, leaning towards him a little over the bar, "I've been doing this a long time, you see _everything_ sooner or later. I've seen that look in a man's eye before enough times to not doubt it when I see it. So here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna leave this bottle here - there's only about 3 more glasses in it - and I'm gonna go grab my lunch. If you're still drinking that when I come back, I'll keep serving you until you can't walk on your own, then take you to my place to sleep it off..." Sam tries to interrupt him, but Tom just holds up a hand, "I've done this for patrons before, my place is off the back of the bar, and I have a spare room, so it's no big deal. In the morning you can settle up and go on your way. Deal?" He cocks his head to the side, reminding Sam a little of Cas, and holds out his hand. Sam thinks for a long moment, just enough for some doubt to creep into Tom's expression, then quickly shakes the man's hand. "Deal. And thanks."

The bottle isn't empty when Tom comes back with his food, and he shares a long look with Sam before shoving a take out box at him. "Sorry, I thought of something else while I was getting food - you need to eat. I've never had anyone die of alcohol poisoning in my bar, and I'd rather not start now. So eat, then drink 'til your soul's content." Sam opens the box, anticipating a greasy burger or something, and is pleasantly surprised to see lo-mein and egg rolls. Tom fidgets a little, seeming, for the first time, a little unsure of himself, "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so we can trade if you'd prefer, I got beef and broccoli, but I like either. If I'd thought of it sooner, I'd have asked what to get you." Sam looks at him and grins, "This is great man, but you didn't have to." And there's that weird déjà vu again. "You could have just told me to go eat." Tom cocks his head again, like he's trying to figure Sam out, and asks quietly "Would you have come back if I did?" Sam's response is easy, "Yeah man, this place is great, and where else am I gonna find a bartender who offers to let me crash at his place if I get too drunk to function?" He's not sure why, but he likes this bar, this bartender, and he's almost happy to be here. Rather than try to explain, he tucks into his lo-mein, emptying the take out container efficiently. He finishes eating and pours the last glass of whiskey from the bottle on the bar. He knocks it back and sets the glass down, only to catch Tom staring at him. "What?" he asks, already half-annoyed. Tom clears his throat awkwardly, "Nothing...just...damn man, you always eat like that?" The question ends with a full on smile and a hand gesture between his empty take out and Tom's, which is still 3/4 full. Sam can feel himself blushing a little as he answers, "My dad was a Marine, and we traveled a lot when I was a kid. If we weren't done eating when dad was, we didn't get to finish, so we learned to eat fast. Some habits just don't go away." He feels like he's said too much already, and cringes, waiting for the inevitable questions. But Tom just sets his food down long enough to crack open a new bottle and set it on the bar in front of Sam, going back to his food. Sam drinks, Tom finishes eating and goes back to work. Customers come in, Sam drinks. Customers go out, Sam drinks. Tom checks on him every now and again, asking if he wants anything different, or having him stand up (to make sure he still can), but otherwise leaves him alone. Sam drinks.  


Somewhere around the middle of the second bottle, a group of women sit down near Sam at the bar. At first he ignores them completely, but when one of them jostles his arm for the third time, he turns to bitch at her, only to find himself at a loss for words as he comes face to chest with the red head who was in the booth earlier. "My eyes are up here sweetie" she purrs at him. He manages to look up, and sure enough, she has eyes too, and they're green and really pretty. "Uh, sorry, I just..hi I'm Sam" he stammers, too drunk to coherently present just what he was doing. She grins, and runs her hand up his leg, and his mind turns off completely. "I'm Cindy. Let's go sit somewhere more...comfortable," she whispers in his ear. He can only nod enthusiastically as she grabs his hand and drags him to a corner booth. The woman is **not** shy, shoving him into the booth and climbing in his lap, grinding on him like she doesn't give a damn that they are in public, and he's pretty sure she's trying to remove his tonsils with her tongue, but he's hardly going to complain. It's been a while, and his downstairs brain thinks this is a damn good plan. A movement at the edge of his vision makes him come up for breath, Cindy grumbling a bit in protest. Tom is there with Sam's bottle and glass; he hadn't thought to grab them. "Thanks man, but you didn't have to," he says, a bit louder than was probably necessary. Tom only winks and turns back to the bar. Sam shakes his head as he turns his attention back to the eager redhead still squirming in his lap. "Is something wrong?" she asks in his ear, and he realizes that he's no longer quite as 'happy' as he was. "Just déjà vu, been happening all day. S'nothing." Sam pours himself another glass, takes a swig, and kisses Cindy hard and deep, hoping to get back to where he was before - not thinking. Cindy is happy to help with that plan, and shortly Sam finds himself being dragged into the restroom. He's honestly not sure if it's the men's or women's, and it doesn't matter anymore when Cindy shoves him into a stall, undoes his pants, and climbs him like a pro. A weak a faded voice in his head tries to say something about protection, but then he's inside of her and she's riding him and it's so damn good! He almost doesn't mind the clean up and the walk of shame back to the booth, but then Cindy announces that she has to take off, and his sex and alcohol buzz starts to come crashing down. He says goodbye without looking her in the eye and takes his booze back up to the bar.

Tom does a double take when he sees Sam sit back down, but is too busy with other customers to make any immediate comment. When he does get a minute, he walks over and stands in front of Sam, examining him critically. "How ya doin' champ?" the bartender asks, "I half expected you to head out of here when your redheaded friend left." Sam ducks his head a little, "Nah, it wasn't like that. Just a bar bunny wanting to get off, and hell, what's the harm?" His question was mostly rhetorical, but he finds himself waiting to see if Tom has answer. "No harm, no foul I guess. Although...the hangdog look on your face makes me wonder if you're really as carefree about these things as you think." The statement sounds like a question, but Sam just picks up his whiskey, holding it up to the light in a mocking toast. He meets Tom's eyes over the glass, and that part of his brain that delights in not shutting up points out that the bartender's eyes match the whiskey rather well, and why the heck would he even think about something like that...

The moment drags a bit too much, and Sam awkwardly turns the toast into slamming the rest of the glass. He coughs, cheap whiskey is _not_ smooth whiskey! Tom's quick grin looks a little grim around the edges, but he doesn't say anything. Sam grabs the bottle again and heads for the pool tables he only noticed after Cindy had left. There's four, and only two of them are occupied, so he racks on one of the empties and plays a (deliberately) crappy solo game to warm up. Hustling pool was one of the many skills that John made sure to teach his boys. Where there's men drinking and pool tables, you can always get some sucker to play for money if you know how to make it look like you barely know how to hold a cue. Sure enough, before he'd clumsily cleared the table, some guy wanders up and puts a ten on the table. He looks at the guy, making sure his face reflects slight drunkenness and confusion rather than triumph. "Huh?" he grunts, and waits for the guy to actually say what he wants. "Next game, you and me. That's if you got $10 left to your name." The guy's contemptuous, and in his head, Sam grins a shark's smile, but on the outside he just pulls out his wallet and digs out a ten. "Uh sure, okay," he answers, slurring just slightly. He sweeps the rest of his practice rack into pockets, rather than playing out the table. He racks the balls, giving his mark first shot. "Hey man, what's your name?" he asks as he makes sure the rack is good. "Cody." The answer is terse, guy's already getting in the zone, so Sam keeps talking. "I'm Sam, I'm new in town. Staying with a friend right now, but it's been a rough couple days and I needed to blow off some steam so I" Sam isn't surprised when Cody cuts him off with "Shut up man! I don't need your life story to play pool!" and breaks angrily, not dropping anything. Sam takes an easy shot, taking solids, then misses his next shot. Cody relaxes a little again, believing that he can easily beat Sam. He sinks three before missing a long shot on the ten ball. Sam sinks two more, then misses. Sam keeps missing shots until Cody has only the thirteen left. Cody is riding high, already acting like he's won, even when he realizes he has no good shot, misses, and turns the table over to Sam. "Tough luck guy" he says, sneering, "Miss your shot so I can end this." Sam finally grins the shark grin he's had inside the whole time. "Oh, I don't think I'm gonna do that" he says, and proceeds to clear his solids off the table. As the eight ball drops, he grabs the two tens and puts his cue back in the stand. "Good game man," he throws over his shoulder as he heads back to the bar, feeling more like himself than he has all day. He gets almost back to his seat when he hears footsteps rushing at his back. Before he can turn around, he gets hit across the back with what he's pretty sure is a pool cue. "Fucking hustle me?!?" Apparently Cody is drunk enough to be angry rather than embarrassed. He hits one knee with the impact, and instinct kicks in. He sweeps the guy's legs out from under him and scrambles to pin him down as soon as he hits the floor. He draws back a fist, ready to knock the son of a bitch out, but Tom grabs his wrist. "Whoa there Sam!" the bartender says, low and smooth like he's trying not to startle him. "I saw what happened, he's out of my bar just as soon as you let him up. Let's not make this anything more than it is."

The hand gripping his wrist is surprisingly strong, and Sam likes Tom and Tom's bar, so he lets Cody up, still ready to put him down again if he moves wrong. A couple of guys who look like they are probably customers grab him and walk/drag him out the door. It's not until he's out of sight that Sam relaxes and realizes that Tom is still gripping onto his wrist. He looks pointedly at the bartender's hand. "You planning on giving that back?" he asks, grinning when Tom startles and lets go like it's on fire. "Sorry, that was just a little more tension than I like," Tom mutters, going back behind the bar as Sam takes a seat. "Was it worth all that to hustle ten dollars?" It's Sam's turn to be startled; when Tom said he saw what happened, he'd assumed he meant that he saw Cody hit him first. "What? It wasn't like" "Just stop Sam!" the bartender's jaw is almost locked, and his eyes..damn, like fire through whiskey! And Sam acknowledges to himself that the adrenaline rush has pushed him well past ordinary drunk suddenly, but Tom is still talking. "I saw what happened and I really don't care, I'm just trying to figure out if it was worth it, for you. I don't understand you. Most guys, after a chick like Cindy, would have been lazy happy and ready to go sleep it off, but you had to go hustle pool for a measly $10, and I get the strange feeling that you aren't done yet. So I'm gonna ask, for the sake of my bar and my customers...what do you _need_ Sam Winchester?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments? Feed meeeeee....


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are weird, so why not drugs?

Sam jerked to his feet, upsetting the bar stool. "Who the hell are you?!?" he asked, sure that he'd stumbled into the hands of a demon or something, because that was _absolutely_ his luck lately. And really, it would serve him right; storming out of the house angry and going on a bender was just begging for trouble.

"Easy there Sam," the bartender said, holding his hands just above the bar, a gesture showing both that he as unarmed, and meant to calm an agitated drunk. "I should have mentioned something sooner I guess, but I'm an old friend of Singer's. I'm one of the few bars in town that opens before noon on weekdays, so Bobby guessed you might end up here and gave me a call." Tom looked earnestly up at Sam, "He asked me to keep an eye out for you is all. I wasn't even planning on telling you I knew who you were; sometimes a man just wants to drink where no one knows him and no one cares..." He trailed off, looking at Sam like he half expected to get punched. Sam scrubbed a hand over his eyes, righted his bar stool, and sat back down. "Sorry man, I guess I over reacted. S'just been a rough few months and it threw me. I should have known Bobby'd have people on the lookout." He grabbed his glass and refilled it. Slammed it back and filled it again, staring at the wood of the bar and avoiding Tom's eyes for a minute to get his composure back. When he looked back up, the bartender had moved away, serving a customer farther down the bar. He was glad, it gave his whiskey muddled brain time to work through the shock, adrenaline, and anger, to acceptance. He really ought to have known, Bobby worried about him and Dean more than their dad _ever_ had, and he had left in a snit, like a dumbass teenager. And he did appreciate Tom trying to leave him his anonymity, though he did wonder a bit why the guy even cared what he needed.

Three more glasses of whiskey and a bathroom break later, Tom checks in on him again. "Doin' alright down here?" he asks nonchalantly as he wipes down the bar. "Fine." Sam says, more to his glass than the bartender, but he can't miss the way the man flinches at his curt answer, so he looks up and tries again. "Look man, it's cool. I promise not to be a dick and punch you or anything." Tom stops wiping the bar, looking at Sam like he's trying to judge his sincerity. Making serious eye contact, he leans in to Sam's personal space, just a bit. "I'm gonna hold you to that kiddo" he said with a grin, "because the way you've been drinking, when the time comes to cut you off, I'm pretty sure you're gonna want to take a swing at me, and I'm going to remind you that your said that!" Sam can't answer, his brain momentarily off on a tangent about how the bartender should really smile more often and how when he does he gets crinkly crows' feet around his amazing eyes and how they somehow make him look 10 years younger which makes no sense because wrinkles of any sort are supposed to make you look older...

"SAM!" He jerked out of his train of thought, meeting Tom's concerned look, only to turn bright red as it hit him that he'd been staring at the man and not saying anything. "Sorry, booze brain I guess," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, definitely remind me that I'm not supposed to hit you, it might even work. Is there somewhere close I can go get something else to eat? I should probably eat again if I'm this muddled." He stopped, because now he was rambling, and that was _not_ an improvement. Tom looked a little bemused, but after a second, his grin came back full force. "Sure thing. If you can wait half an hour, my night bartender will be in, and I can take you to get some real food?" his tone made it a question. Sam thinks for a minute, weighing the appeal of getting something fast and getting back to his drinking against the strange appeal of spending more time with his host. "Sounds good man. I can hold out that long easy enough." Tom shoots him another wide grin, then heads off to take care of the guy snapping his fingers (douche!) down at the other end of the bar.

Trying not to think to hard about why he's bothering, Sam slowly nurses his drink, taking time instead to look around the bar. He's kind of surprised to see that it's gotten almost crowded. With no one bothering him, he hadn't realized that the after work crowd had drifted in. There's a strange mix of types too - business types in suits or skirts, farmer/ranchers in dusty jeans and t-shirts or button downs and boots, a booth full of off duty cops that most likely nobody else realized _were_ cops, and naturally, a whole lot of every man types. And while he wondered what drew them all to _this_ bar, somehow no one looked out of place. ("Except you," the voice in his head added. "You're the only sloppy drunk, wrecked, disgraceful excuse for a hunter in the place.") And suddenly he felt out of place, and unable to sit still. He looked at the clock above the bar...still 15 minutes before Tom would be ready to go eat, so he gets up and makes his way to the men's room. He can hear voices even before he get to the door, so he's already altering his original plan ("which was to hide in the bathroom like an eight year old") to going in to just splash some water on his face, when he pushes the door open. There are 3 men at the sinks. Two of them turn to face him when the door opens, and the third is ducked a little behind them, obviously stashing whatever drugs they'd been sharing. The biggest guy gives him a hard look, but he's been in worse situations, and honestly doesn't have it in him to even pretend to care right now. "Relax guys, I don't give a damn." he says as he turns on the water and grabs a paper towel. He meets their startled looks in the mirror, "Just let me wash my face quick and I'm outta here." Whether it was his tone or his actions, they seemed to believe him. The guy who was trying to hide everything even grins at him. It makes his heart ache, the guy looks like a younger, slightly strung out version of Garth. He shakes it off, scrubs his face, tosses the paper towel and turns to leave. A hand on his sleeve stops him. It's the Garth look a like, "Hey, you wanna do a line with us buddy?" He knows he should say no, but the part of him that's here to get oblivious thinks otherwise. "Sure, why not," he hears himself saying. The other two look kind of disgusted, but apparently it's not their call, as the Garth-guy puts a piece of hard plastic on the counter and quickly cuts out 3 neat lines. ("Isn't it supposed to be a mirror?") Sam's brain wonders irrelevantly, ("it's always a mirror in the movies.") and then the guy hands him a straw made of some rolled paper, and even though he's never done it before, Sam hasn't lived the life for years without seeing this before, and he knows what to do, and then it's done and..."Thanks man, but I gotta go meet someone, you guys have a nice night." And the hard-eyed guy is looking at him with less suspicion, but he really should go back out to the bar, and he pushes the door open and walks out, hearing the three men start talking again as he leaves.

He's not sure what the hype is really about coke, he doesn't feel any different. Maybe the same part of him that craves demon blood (still) makes it so that other drugs don't affect him. He walks back to his seat, sits, picks up his drink...and then it hits him. Almost like someone flipped a switch. He feels like he just woke up, alert, focused. He swears he can hear the clock on the wall ticking, the smell of the woman leaning over the bar to talk to Tom is overwhelming. Tom laughs at whatever was said, and it sounds like joy. Sam catches himself before he laughs out loud, only a smothered chuckle making it out, but it's enough to make Tom look over at him curiously. Sam meets his eyes, and what Tom sees must alarm him, because he takes off his apron and gestures to the woman urgently. She nods and comes around the bar, grabs what he assumes to be a clean apron from a cupboard, and shoos Tom away with a gesture. Tom comes out from behind the bar, and grabs Sam's arm. "Alright, let's go get food," he says, biting each word off as though it's personally wronged him. Sam grabs his coat as he's dragged away, unsure now whether this was a good idea after all. Tom drags him to the door and almost physically shoves him out into the chill night air. Sam has enough time to shrug his coat on, and then he's being dragged again. As Tom pulls him around the corner, it finally clicks that he should probably ask where they are going, what's wrong - anything - rather than just letting himself be _taken_ like this, and he stops. He hadn't really realized how short Tom was (at least compared to him), since the man had a rather large personality, until he refused to be pulled and Tom turned around and glared **up** at him.

"So," Tom huffs at him, "I see you found more trouble to get into in the half hour you said you could wait." Sam ducks his head, but has nothing to say for himself. "Nothing to say?" Tom sounds genuinely distressed, and for some reason it reminds Sam of Dean and Bobby and everyone who's ever tried to care about him at all, and he can't take it anymore. "Who the hell died and made you my keeper?" he shouts at the smaller man. "You don't even know me, so how about you lay the fuck off!?!" He's breathing like he's been running, angry and ashamed at the same time, and almost immediately wishes he could take it back. The guy was just concerned, he didn't need his head taken off.

But before he could say any of that, Tom shoved him, hard. "Dick. But, you're right. I just tend to get too caught up when...never mind. Let's get food, I'm starving." And he started walking again, hands in his pockets, focused ahead like he had no doubt that Sam was going to follow, so of course, Sam did. One more corner brought them to an alley, and a door. Tom dug a key out of his pocket and opened it. "Um" Sam said, confused, "where are we going anyway?" Tom twitched hard, apparently he was not expecting Sam to say anything or was deep inside his own head. "Sorry Sam, I forgot to tell you, I figured the best place to get real food without having to go far was here." He opened the door and flipped on a light, "Welcome to mi casa!"


End file.
